The Heiresses

by Shepard, Sara

  The temperature rose a few degrees. “What?”

  James ran his hand through his hair. “She’s been so distant. It’s like I don’t exist.” He suddenly sounded unglued. “I mean, look. I know the signs. I’ve done it to ­people. Something is really wrong with us.”

  Rowan thought back to Skylar’s birthday party. Poppy had seemed a little standoffish. She hadn’t noticed when James disappeared into the bathroom, and she wasn’t looking for him when they reappeared. “She’s overwhelmed. She has a crazy job, two little kids, and the press is still talking about her parents’ accident,” Rowan said, thinking of what she’d read on the Blessed and the Cursed.

  “She’s always handled it before. Now, there are times after work when she’s just . . . missing,” James explained. “I’ll call her, and she doesn’t pick up. And I’ve caught her making secret phone calls. Hanging up fast when I come around. It’s why I didn’t go back there tonight. I just couldn’t handle it anymore. I had to tell someone.” He grabbed Rowan’s hand. “I almost said something to you about it at Sky’s party. Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Of course not!” Rowan cried. She stared down at her hands, her head spinning. James’s fingers were entwined in hers. Slowly she pulled them away. “This is all in your head. Poppy would never do that.”

  “You’d be surprised what ­people do.”

  “Not her,” Rowan insisted. “And not to you. You’re a wonderful father and an amazing husband. You’re amazing . . . in general.”

  The sentence hung there. James met her gaze. Rowan pressed her lips shut, horrified she’d said it.

  A surprised smile appeared on James’s face. “Do you mean that, Saybrook?”

  The Scotch felt thick on the roof of her mouth. “Maybe,” she whispered.

  “How do you mean it?”

  He stared at her. Rowan swallowed hard, a door opening. All at once, she couldn’t lie. Here, drunk, at eleven o’clock on a Thursday night, maybe she could tell the truth.

  “I mean it . . .” She shut her eyes and turned away. “In every way.”

  James’s lashes lowered. Then, with one confident movement, he pulled her toward him. He ran his hands through her hair. She touched the back of his neck. She drank in the smell of his soap, his strong grip, the deftness with which he touched her. God, she had wondered about this for years. Every time he met another girl, every time he told Rowan he’d slept in someone else’s bed, she’d wondered.

  In minutes they were in her bedroom. “This isn’t right,” Rowan murmured as he lay her on the mattress.

  “Yeah, it is, Saybrook. This is probably the most right thing we’ve ever done.” He kissed her neck. “I knew you wanted me. I wanted you too.”

  Rowan stared at him. “No, you didn’t.” But the look on James’s face said that perhaps he had.

  James caressed her face, his breath quick. “I think even Poppy knew how we felt, deep down.” He sank onto one elbow. “You are so smart. And beautiful. And cool.”

  “Stop,” Rowan said bashfully, but he pulled her in again before she could say anything else. His words washed over her, over and over, until they were the only refrain in her mind, the only thing that existed between them.

  For a few precious hours, she finally got everything she’d ever wanted.

  Rowan opened her eyes. She was lying on top of her duvet in a merlot-­colored silk camisole she didn’t remember buying. The ceiling fan whirled over her head; outside, she could hear the soft hiss of the city waking up. Judging by the dull light streaming through the window, it was probably right before dawn. Her head pounded from the Scotch and wine. James lay beside her, unconscious. A figure stood over the bed. She had hollow eyes, a downturned mouth, a shapeless body. “Shame on you,” a raspy voice whispered.

  Rowan cowered back. But when she lifted the covers from her eyes again, the figure was gone. The digital clock blinked 5:50. Sunshine streamed in from the tall casement windows.

  Rowan heaved a breath. A dream. There was nothing in the corner except for a pile of clothes. Her jeans. Her T-­shirt. And black men’s loafers.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. James was here.

  But he wasn’t in the bed, as he had been in the dream. Rowan rose, walked to the door, and listened. James’s muffled voice floated out from the living room. He stood in his boxers, his strong, tanned back facing her. His cell phone was to his ear.

  “I know, I know,” he whispered. “But I told you, something came up.” He shifted. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  Rowan tried to escape silently, but she stepped on a creaky plank in the floor. James turned. His eyes widened, and he hit the END button on the phone.

  “I’m sorry,” Rowan whispered, a lump in her throat. He had to have been talking to Poppy. Lying about why he hadn’t come home last night, consumed with regret.

  Rowan couldn’t even think about her guilt, it was so overpowering. She couldn’t look at her hands, knowing that they’d touched James everywhere. What had she done? She thought about how the future would unfold: she’d blurt it out to Poppy for sure. There was no way she could face her cousin as though nothing were the matter. Poppy might forgive Rowan, but there would always be an abyss between them—­at every dinner, during every holiday celebration, every time they saw each other, they both would remember what Rowan had done.

  And then, quietly, Poppy would tell the other cousins, explaining that she understood why it happened, in a way—­poor Rowan had been single for so long, and James had been her friend, and really, could anyone blame her?

  She backed out of the room. James dropped the phone on the couch and ran toward her. “Hey. Where are you going?”

  He tried to wrap his arms around her waist, but Rowan arched away, almost feeling as though the future scenario she’d mapped out in her mind had already happened. “Oh, God, James. What the hell happened? What did we do?”

  He leaned back and stared hard at her. “Calm down. It’s going to be okay.”

  Tears filled her eyes, hot and salty. “How can you say that? Nothing will be okay.”

  He tried to kiss her, but she ducked her head to the side so that he got her ear. “I have to get out of here,” she said, glancing at the clock. It was 6:03; she had a conference call with the Singapore office at 7:30. She dared to glance at James. Just looking at him, she felt an undeniable pull toward him. “You should go home,” she ordered. “Work things out with Poppy. Please.”

  James shook his head. “I think we’re past that. I’m serious. I’m telling her it’s over.”

  Rowan felt the blood drain from her face. He couldn’t do that. “Okay, so stay here and think. Sober up. You’ll change your mind. You’ll see how wrong this is.”

  “Saybrook.” James stepped forward and took her face in his big hands. “Just slow down for a minute, and maybe you’ll see how right this is. It will be messy, yeah, but you are my closest friend. You know me better than everyone. I love you. This should have happened years ago.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her. Rowan shut her eyes. If only it felt dreadful, two shapes fitting together badly. She struggled to pull away, her lips feeling toxic. “I have to go,” she muttered.

  It was six thirty by the time she showered, dressed, and gathered her keys, while James languished in the bed. It only took fifteen minutes to walk to work, but she had to get out of there, away from what she’d done. Rowan avoided looking at James for fear of another tidal wave of shame—­or desire. Was it even right to leave him here? But if they walked out of the apartment together, someone might see them, and that would be worse.

  Rowan’s head swam as she stopped at the Starbucks on the corner. She barely noticed the loud grinder, the pounding world music, or the woman with the Staten Island accent on her cell phone in front of her. After waiting in a long line to get coffee and a muffin, she decided to eat in
a little park near her apartment. She was in no hurry to get to work and face her cousin.

  As she sat, pedestrians streaming past her, her mind ebbed and flowed over what had happened. Did James actually love her? And was Poppy really having an affair? Rowan couldn’t imagine it, but she supposed anything was possible. It didn’t make what Rowan had done more forgivable, of course. But it certainly explained why James had turned to her.

  Finally, when she could put it off no longer, Rowan stood and made her way down Hudson. Twenty minutes later she turned onto Harrison—­and stopped short. NYPD sawhorses blocked the intersection at Harrison and Greenwich. The Saybrook’s building, a gleaming slab of gray limestone and glass that looked particularly beautiful against the bright blue sky, sat at the corner. Yellow police tape surrounded the front entrance, and several ambulances and fire trucks were parked crookedly in front, lights flashing.

  Rowan walked cautiously along the sidewalk, her heart speeding up. The police tape cordoned off a small rectangle on the pavement just outside the building; paramedics stood over something covered by a sheet. She looked up. Across the street, ­people stood on their balconies, men in shirtsleeves and women in spring dresses, their hands over their mouths, staring at the ground.

  Corinne swam out from among the crowd, her face ghost-­white. She ran to Rowan and clutched her arm.

  “What’s going on?” Rowan cried.

  Corinne stared at Rowan as if seeing through her. Then she collapsed in Rowan’s arms and started sobbing. The church clock a few blocks down bonged out the half hour.

  “Corinne, what?” Rowan stared into her cousin’s face. “What is it?”

  Corinne looked at Rowan with wet, red eyes. “It’s Poppy,” she said hoarsely, her voice breaking. “She’s dead.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  ....................................

  7

  Corinne!” called a voice as Corinne emerged from her parents’ town car on Monday morning. “Can you comment on your cousin’s suicide?”

  “Aster, does she have a history of drug use?” another asked, training a camera on Aster. “Was she mentally ill?”

  Corinne pulled her black satin clutch closer to her body, grasped her mother’s hand, and hurried faster up toward the Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine on Amsterdam Avenue. A newsstand stood at the curb; Poppy’s face was splashed on every front page. “Carat, Cut, Clarity, Calamity,” read one headline. “City Mourns a Flawless Diamond,” read another. “A Fall from Grace.” There was a photo of Poppy at a gala at the Met, staring off into space, her eyes large, her mouth puckered, and her jaw tense. Another paper showed a photo of Poppy’s lumpy shape under the sheet on the sidewalk outside the Saybrook’s offices.

  Corinne couldn’t get the morning of Poppy’s death out of her mind. She’d arrived at Saybrook’s just six minutes after Poppy jumped, still reeling from seeing Will Coolidge the day before. There had been a crowd of ­people around the entrance, and at first she’d been annoyed. But then she’d noticed a paramedic leaning over someone on the sidewalk.

  Corinne had pushed through the throng when suddenly a Saybrook’s guard grabbed her. “Stay back, Corinne,” he said in a firm voice. It was a sweet Irish guy, Colin, who always invited Corinne and Dixon out with him and his Irish buddies to drink on Saint Patrick’s Day.

  “What’s going on?” Corinne had demanded, her heart thudding against her rib cage. Even though she would have difficulty believing him in a few moments, it was if a part of her already knew.

  Colin had looked at her. And then he’d mouthed her name. Poppy.

  Years ago, at an amusement park on the Cape, Poppy had talked Corinne into going on a ride called the Rotor, a barrel that spun and spun until, abruptly, the ground went out below your feet and the riders stuck to the sides by centrifugal force. That was how she’d felt, seeing Poppy’s body splayed across the sidewalk. It had been several days now, and every morning she expected to wake up and see an e-­mail from Poppy, or a missed call. It has to be a mistake, she kept thinking, even as it became painfully clear that it was not.

  “Rowan! Was there a business scandal?” another reporter shouted to Rowan, who was behind Corinne. “Trouble in her marriage?”

  “Was she depressed about her parents’ death?” another reporter screamed.

  “Did she leave a note?”

  Corinne’s heart wrenched. Police had gone through Poppy’s office, and there it had been, typed in a Word document on her computer screen. “I just can’t handle it anymore,” it read. “I’m sorry. Good-­bye.” Proof that Poppy, the most together-­seeming of their cousins, had taken her own life.

  As soon as everyone was inside the airy, high-­ceilinged cathedral, away from the press, Corinne drifted to Rowan and gave her a huge hug. She looked deathly pale; Rowan hadn’t been to work all week, and now Corinne wondered if she was taking it harder than the rest of them. Aster stood next to her, her gaze on the floor.

  Corinne touched her sister’s arm. “Hey,” she said gently, her voice breaking. Now, their fight seemed so petty.

  Aster looked up. Her lips parted. Corinne opened her arms, and Aster fell into them. “It’s so awful,” Aster sobbed in Corinne’s ear. “It makes no sense. She had everything.”

  “I know,” Corinne whispered.

  Variegated light streamed in through the stained glass windows inside the cathedral. Mourners in black stood in small clumps, some checking their phones, some dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. A large birdbath structure bearing holy water was off to one side; several ­people dipped their fingers in and crossed themselves.

  The Saybrook family wasn’t religious, but the cathedral’s high ceilings and cool, dark space always made Corinne feel calmed and at peace. It was less flashy than St. Patrick’s, where Steven Barnett’s memorial had been five years before, and because it was much farther uptown, it also seemed more private, though that wasn’t proving true today.

  The memory of Corinne’s grandfather’s funeral here came back to her. It had been at the beginning of what was already proving to be a horrible summer—­Dixon had announced that he was going to London to intern at FTSE Group, and, oh yeah, he was breaking up with her. Two weeks later, still completely unmoored, Corinne got the news that her grandfather had suddenly died. She’d just seen Alfred at Meriweather a few days before. He’d given her a pair of three-­carat diamond teardrop earrings; when Corinne asked what the occasion was, he just smiled and kissed her cheek. “Simply because you’re my sweet girl.” She could still smell his cigar-­and-­soap-­scented skin. She could still hear his gravelly voice. She could still smell the lime in his gin and tonic.

  Her grandfather’s casket had been closed, so Corinne hadn’t been able to kiss him good-­bye and tuck those earrings under his satin pillow. A picture of Corinne crying had appeared on the Blessed and the Cursed the following day. Someone had actually sent in an image from inside the church.

  Now an usher handed Corinne a program and pointed her through a door. Corinne walked, zombielike, toward the front, her gaze flickering over the sea of mourners crowding the entrance. There were ­people from work, colleagues from other jewelry empires, and models, actors, musicians, and designers. A fashion editor from Vogue stood along the wall, next to a serious-­looking blond woman in a business suit.

  Mourners rushed toward Corinne, offering words of sympathy. Winston and Sullivan, her teenage cousins from California, hugged her hard. Their mother, Aunt Grace, who almost never came to New York, approached next, hugging Rowan tight. Rowan’s brothers, Michael and Palmer, who’d flown in, pulled her in for bear hugs. “It’s such a tragedy,” said Beatrice, Poppy’s twenty-­five-­year-­old second cousin on her mother’s side. Her words seemed especially hollow; Corinne wondered if it was because Poppy had passed her over for a promotion several months ago.r />
  Corinne hugged a few more ­people from Saybrook’s, an accessories editor from Vogue. ­People streamed past her, their faces blending together. Danielle Gilchrist gripped her hand. “I’m so sorry—­I can’t believe it,” she murmured. And Danielle’s mother, Julia, stood next to her, her eyes full and sad. Corinne hadn’t seen Julia in years, since she’d divorced her husband, but she looked as though she hadn’t aged a day.

  “My condolences,” Julia told her. “Call if you need anything,” murmured Mrs. Delacourte, Poppy’s old nanny, who had to be almost eighty. “Just horrible,” sniffed Jessica, Edith’s personal assistant, before scuttling toward the front of the church, where Edith was sitting.

  “Oh, honey,” Deanna, said next, squeezing Corinne tight. “If you’re up for it, we should talk afterward,” she whispered into Corinne’s ear. “About some interviews. But only if you feel ready.”

  “I don’t,” Corinne said, pulling back. That was Deanna—­she was part Jewish mother, part relentless workaholic, always thinking about the media’s reaction. There would be a ­People special about the family’s curse, and 20/20 would create a story without a single source. But at this point, Corinne didn’t see the point in doing interviews. She’d already given a brief statement that she had no idea why Poppy might have done such a horrible thing. She had nothing else to add.

  Then another hand touched Corinne’s back, and she stared into the face of Jonathan York, president of Gemologique Internationale, one of Saybrook’s biggest competitors. He had also once been Corinne’s uncle by marriage, but he and Aunt Grace had divorced years ago. Jonathan was tall and trim in his dark suit, with salt-­and-­pepper hair and steely blue eyes=. His trophy wife, Lauren, wasn’t on his arm—­Corinne had heard they’d split recently. It surprised her, actually, that he was here. He was the one person Poppy never quite managed to get along with. They occasionally had to do business, and more than once after a call with Jonathan, Poppy showed up in Corinne’s office flustered and angry.